


I Only Wanted a Little Love Affair

by BookishAngel (DisnerdingAvenger)



Series: Bright Young Things [2]
Category: Bright Young Things, Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, First Meetings, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Modern AU, Summer Vacation, a Greek Getaway, alternately titled 'Love on a Yacht', falling in love to a soundtrack, relationship origins, songfic (sort of?)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-01
Updated: 2019-04-01
Packaged: 2019-12-30 14:32:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18317189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DisnerdingAvenger/pseuds/BookishAngel
Summary: While London's bright young elite are all on an exclusive Greek getaway on Archie Shwert's yacht, Miles Maitland quite literally falls into Anthony J. Crowley's lap. They both thought that a summer fling would be fun; neither of them expected to fall in love.





	I Only Wanted a Little Love Affair

**Author's Note:**

> Here it is, folks! The Modern AU origin story that literally only three people asked for. That's three people more than I ever expected to hop on this crackship with me, though, so let's have some fun! 
> 
> Title is taken from "Why Did It Have To Be Me?" by ABBA.
> 
> For reference: Crowley is 27 & Miles is 26.

While it was a well-known fact that Miles Maitland threw the very best parties in all of London, it was equally well-known that Archie Shwert planned and executed the very best getaways. In 2016 they had all flown to New York City on his family’s private jet; in 2017 it had been a month-long romp in all of Italy’s very best hotspots; and now, in 2018, it was a yacht trip to Greece, return-date undecided. That was the type of life that the Bright Young Things led; they had their parents’ fortunes to rely upon, either in the form of a guaranteed inheritance or a hefty trust fund, and the few who had earned their place in the crowd on their own merit (i.e. by making their own money) had enough power over those who worked under them that they could take as much time off as they liked with no ramifications whatsoever.

Miles Maitland, whose parents owned the Metroland Country Club & Golf Resort, was a trust fund baby set to take over the family business whenever his father keeled over.

Anthony J. Crowley, tech genius and CEO of Edenic Corp (which was currently the world’s top producer of dating apps), fell into the latter category.

Thus, they both earned themselves a spot on Archie Shwert’s 2018 Greek Extravaganza Trip, which consisted of copious amounts of alcohol, a generous consumption of drugs, and a seemingly endless supply of sunshine. Crowley was presently enjoying the sunshine _very_ much; London, even in summer, was gloomy and tepid at best, so the blistering sunlight beating down on the yacht as they floated in the Mediterranean Sea was an exceedingly welcome change of pace.

The redhead was busy sunning himself by the pool on the top deck, his black silk button-down hanging open with the sleeves rolled up and a pair of expensive designer aviators perched on his nose, when his blissful basking was rather rudely interrupted. He’d spent the past several hours drifting in and out of consciousness while Archie’s other guests partied all around him, both in and out of the pool, to a soundtrack of somebody’s “Summer 2k18” playlist – but after growing up with an overbearing mother and a temperamental younger sister, he found it quite easy to tune everyone, and everything, out.

Even Crowley’s skills, however, were not so advanced as to be able to “tune out” someone quite literally tripping over his legs, which were dangling from his lounge chair, and landing in his lap.

Instantly the white noise that he’d allowed everything to blend into sharpened into intense clarity; Camila Cabello’s “Havana” was thumping from a set of expensive speakers, people in the pool were shrieking with laughter as they alternated between tossing a beach ball around and pairing off to make out, and there was currently a young man roughly his age - dressed in a baby blue polo shirt and a pair of pink Ray-Bans – babbling nervously without _actually_ attempting to get off of his lap.

“…and your legs were just _there_ , I didn’t see them at all… _really_ wasn’t paying enough attention, silly me, and I… lucky I didn’t land in the pool, what a mess _that_ would have been, and…”

Tuning in and out of his rapid-fire chattering, Crowley arched an eyebrow as he gave his accidental assailant a once-over. Dark hair – curls – and enticingly soft, pink lips; perfectly manicured fingernails, glistening with a fresh clear-coat in comparison to his own nails, which were varnished with black polish; and hips that, after a moment’s deliberation, Crowley decided he wouldn’t mind having his hands on. With that in mind, he finally lifted his hand and pressed a finger to the pink lips in question, stopping his babbling mid-sentence.

“I like to think that everything happens for a reason,” Crowley drawled, his own lips quirking up into a smirk. From their close proximity, he could see the other man’s eyes widen slightly behind the lenses of his sunglasses. “Tell me; who do I have the pleasure of having in my lap?”

Dropping his finger from his lips, he watched the unknown young man flounder for a moment. Crowley clearly hadn’t lost his seductive touch, even if he only employed it with the utmost selectivity. Relationships were just so much _work_ … but this was meant to be a carefree getaway, was it not? He might as well indulge in _all_ of life’s little pleasures…

Licking his lips, his cheeks turning pink with absolutely no correlation to sunburn, the young man murmured, “Miles. Miles Maitland – and I can, ehm… get _off_ of your lap, if you wish? It really was an accident, and I’d hate to be-”

Again, the finger was pressed to his lips.

“…a nuisance,” he finished, mumbling slightly against Crowley’s finger, and now he was _really_ blushing.

“You’re being nothing of the sort,” Crowley stated, relaxing back against his lounge chair again and folding his hands behind his head into a makeshift pillow. “Tell me, Miles Maitland; are you typically a babbler?”

“Only when I’m nervous,” Miles admitted, sounding a tad breathless. Unsure of what to do with his own hands, he settled for folding them primly in his lap while he continued to straddle Crowley’s legs.

“And why, pray tell, are you nervous?”

“Well, because I’ve just fallen on top of you,” Miles stated as though it should be obvious, swallowing the lump in his throat before adding, “and you’re really very attractive.”

“Am I?”

Tilting his pink Ray-Bans down to allow himself to properly rake his gaze over Crowley, his eyes lingering on his well-toned chest, Miles licked his lips before insisting, “ _Quite_.”

Smirking, Crowley drew one hand from behind his head to slide his aviators suggestively down his nose, musing, “You’re quite attractive yourself.”

A slow smirk working at his own lips, Miles echoed, “Am I?”

Settling back into his chair again, Crowley pushed his sunglasses back up on his nose and tipped his head back, basking in the sun as he muttered in confirmation, “Indeed.”

Allowing his previous nervousness to melt away, replaced instead by his usual boldness, Miles slithered his way up Crowley’s warm, sun-kissed body, pressing their chests together while he shifted forward to straddle his hips instead of his legs. Weaving his fingers into Crowley’s hair, Miles toyed with it and hovered close as he whispered, “I’ve told you _my_ name; won’t you tell me yours…?”

His smirk still in place, Crowley kept one hand lazily behind his head while the other trailed its way up Miles’ leg to his hip before ghosting beneath his polo to trace delicate patterns on the skin of his back. Finding that he was rather enjoying having Miles’ fingers in his hair, he hummed, “Crowley.”

“Just Crowley?” Miles asked, one hand staying in his hair while the other trailed a fingertip down over his cheekbone.

Turning his head to nip playfully at the finger in question, Crowley smirked when Miles exhaled a playful little gasp, clarifying, “Anthony J. Crowley if you want to be formal, but I prefer just Crowley.”

“Just Crowley it is, then,” Miles agreed, turning his head to brush his lips close to Crowley’s ear. Resisting the urge to nibble on his earlobe (for now), Miles asked, “Tell me, Crowley… Are you presently in love with anyone?”

Humming in the back of his throat at the feeling of Miles’ breath tickling his ear, Crowley mused, “Can’t say that I am.”

“Are you presently engaged in a tragic, loveless relationship?”

“Nope,” Crowley hummed, popping the ‘p’.

“Then _do_ tell me, darling…” Smirking, Miles allowed himself to get in one nip at Crowley’s earlobe before whispering, “How would you feel about engaging in a little love affair?”

“It would depend entirely upon who was asking me,” Crowley sighed, pressing his fingertips into the flesh of Miles’ lower back, and he felt Miles smirk.

“With _me_ , of course.”

“Well, in _that_ case…” Smirking in return, Crowley turned his head until their lips were mere inches apart, murmuring, “I’d make no objections…”

Leaning in, Miles captured Crowley’s bottom lip in a slow, deep kiss while the sun beat down on them and the cerulean waves lapped at the side of the yacht below. Miles had a tendency to collect love affairs and wear them like a badge of honor; he’d taken up the habit not long after having his heart broken and dirty laundry aired for all the world to see. The more men he spent his waking hours with, the clearer it would be to Tiger Leboucher that he may have won that particular round, but he would not win the war.

Of course, Miles didn’t linger long on thoughts of Tiger when Crowley’s hands slid into his curls and his talented tongue slipped into his mouth. He tasted like the appletinis that he had been drinking since breakfast and Miles was certain he’d never tasted anything quite so intoxicating – nor had he ever encountered such an intoxicating presence. It was easy to get drunk on Crowley, to let his hands slide over strong abdominal muscles while Crowley nibbled on his lip; to let his hips rock suggestively down against Crowley’s, and to allow his hand to be taken as they both got to their feet. When Crowley tugged him into the nearest suite and locked the door, Miles could still hear DNCE’s “Kissing Strangers” playing outside, the bass thumping through the wall that Crowley shoved him up against to kiss him with intensified vigor.

If the sun was hot, then the sex was positively scalding; Miles saw stars when Crowley pulled his hair while fucking him against the wall, and he left red scratches on Crowley’s back when he fucked him into the mattress on the other side of the room, his fingers grazing with fascination over the snake tattoo behind his ear while he hovered above him, pressing kisses to the back of his neck with each thrust.

It was all positively orgasmic, to the extreme, and Miles didn’t think about Tiger Leboucher even once. In the past, he’d made the mistake of calling out the wrong name during sex with strangers – but it was impossible to scream anything other than “ _Crowley!_ ” when the man in question was busy turning his legs to jelly.

Afterward, while they lay in a tangle of bed sheets with Miles resting on Crowley’s chest and Crowley trailing his fingers over Miles’ spine, Crowley hummed contentedly and admitted, “I don’t ordinarily do this sort of thing.”

“No?” Miles asked, tilting his head back to look up at Crowley, tossing him a naughty smirk. “Well, you’re _very_ good at it.”

“I take pride in everything I do,” Crowley mused, smirking as he stretched, arching his back slightly before settling down into a more comfortable position. Bringing his hand up to toy with Miles’ sweat-dampened curls, he joked, “If you aren’t entirely satisfied, there’s a money-back guarantee.”

Giggling breathlessly, Miles shook his head, nudging Crowley’s foot with his own beneath the sheets as he hummed, “Oh, you needn’t worry about _that._  I’m _exceedingly_ satisfied.”

Grinning, Crowley tilted Miles’ chin up with his fingertip and brought his lips down to his in a surprisingly sweet kiss given the passion they were entangled in mere moments before – and, outside, “Delicate” by Taylor Swift was floating over the ocean’s waves.

* * *

It was while they were walking, hand-in-hand, through a small town on a Grecian island a few days later that Miles Maitland and Anthony J. Crowley got to know each other properly. That was how summer flings tended to go, after all; you have your passionate, slightly-drunken romp first and ask questions second. Miles was particularly fond of playing 20 Questions, and so that's what they were doing while they browsed a tourist market and thoroughly enjoyed the afternoon sunshine. 

"Have you always lived in London?" Miles asked, brushing his fingers over a display of blue beads, his Jimmy Choo flip-flops slapping against the cobblestone beneath their feet. 

"Not always. My mother sent my sister and me to boarding school in Miami for a year when I was seventeen; I think she was hoping it might make me want to go to college in America." Smiling sardonically, Crowley added, "Anything to get me out of her hair."

"You and Mummy Dearest don't see eye-to-eye, I take it?" Miles asked, smirking at Crowley as he peeked at him over the top of his sunglasses. Crowley chuckled and gave his head a shake, brushing his thumb over the side of Miles' hand.

"Not exactly. Lilith has always been the golden child; I like to think there were a good five years where my mother liked me, and then she got the daughter that she always wanted and my existence became a burden that she had a motherly obligation to shoulder."

Furrowing his brow, Miles countered, "But surely she didn't dislike you just because you were a  _boy?_ That's mad!"

Shrugging, Crowley ran a hand through his red hair as he explained, "She's told me, on more than one occasion, that I remind her too much of my father. He ran off when he found out she was pregnant again; all I can remember is that he had red hair and that he was a mean old bastard. If that really is why she's always disliked me, I can't say I blame her."

"Red hair does not you your father make," Miles intoned, giving Crowley's hand a squeeze.

"Well thank you, Yoda. That makes me feel  _much_ better," Crowley quipped, smirking, and he laughed when Miles nudged him with his elbow. 

"Tell me about your sister, then. You said her name is Lilith?"

"Ahh, yes. Lilith I  _do_ get along with. We've always gotten on like a house on fire, ever since she was born; I used to steal candy from the grocery store by hiding it in her pram, and then we'd share it when Mother wasn't looking. We were quite  _naughty_ , Lilith and I."

"And you're not now?" Miles asked with a smirk, which Crowley amusedly returned.

"We don't still steal candy if that's what you mean - but I suppose we're both a bit naughty in public opinion. Three years back, Mother appointed Lilith as her COO at Art of Temptation-"

"The lingerie company?" Miles interrupted, his eyes widening as he reached out to grab Crowley's arm with his free hand, stopping in the middle of the street. "Your mother is  _Satana Crowley?_ "

"Speak of the Devil and she shall appear," Crowley responded wryly, nudging Miles to get him moving again so they wouldn't be in the way. "You're familiar with her, I take it?"

"I... may own a thing or two from her boutiques, yes."

Smirking, Crowley asked, "Oh, you  _do_ , do you?"

Grinning, Miles shook his head and innocently ventured over to a vendor who was selling bottles of wine from the local vineyard. Examining the stock, he asked, "You were saying before I interrupted you?"

Smirking rather like the Cheshire Cat, storing away that information for later, Crowley trailed a finger over a bottle of red wine as he mused, "Right. Mother made Lilith her COO, so I had to go out and make my own fortune; as it would turn out, dating apps are a rather lucrative endeavor."

"I can imagine," Miles agreed, grinning and shaking his head as he paid for a promising white vintage.

"Anyhow, I'm sure you can  _also_ imagine that a young and beautiful COO of a lingerie company and the flash-bastard creator of a hookup app aren't perceived as being London's most  _virtuous_ set of siblings."

"Virtue is highly overrated," Miles mused, smirking as he took Crowley's hand once again, nuzzling his nose against the curve of his neck where skin peeked out from beneath his collar. Nipping playfully at the ghost of a hickey that he left there the night before, Miles gave Crowley's hand a squeeze.

"What about you, then?" Crowley asked, letting go of Miles' hand in favor of lazily draping an arm around his shoulders, adjusting his aviators against the bright sun while they walked. Slightly distracted by a vendor selling sea-glass jewelry, he asked, "What's your family like?"

"Oh, not nearly as interesting as yours," Miles sighed, wrapping his arm around Crowley's waist and bumping his hip as they walked. "My father's father's father's father's father opened the Metroland Country Club & Golf Resort over a century ago and it's been passed down to the firstborn son of every generation ever since. My mother comes from even older money; her grandmother is the Dowager Countess of Westmorland and we still spend Christmases at her estate. My parents met at Oxford, fell in love, got married; the usual, respectable sort of British union." Smirking, Miles shook his head. It certainly wasn't as juicy as having a self-made mother who was the CEO of Europe's largest lingerie chain. 

"Any siblings?" Crowley asked, and Miles nodded as the reached the sea-glass display, curiously examining a necklace. The blue was nearly the exact shade that the sea had been every morning of their trip.

"Sisters; four, all younger. Margaret is sixteen, Grace is fourteen, Chastity is ten, and Lottie is seven."

“Grace and Chastity?” Crowley asked with a smirk and Miles chuckled.

“The usual, respectable sort of British family.”

“Of course," Crowley agreed, not thinking twice before grabbing the necklace that Miles was eyeing and paying for it. Miles blinked with surprise.

“It would appear we have similar tastes,” he stated, on the verge of pouting – so you can imagine his surprise when Crowley moved behind him, reaching around to clasp the necklace at the back of Miles’ neck.

“Not quite,” he breathed, pressing a kiss beneath Miles’ ear before grinning against his skin. “I’m just observant.”

Miles, reasonably flustered, rested a hand over the cool sea-glass and smiled.

* * *

Miles told himself repeatedly as the weeks passed that it was silly for a fling to be making him so happy. Summer sex was a way to wile away hot afternoons and steamy nights; it wasn’t supposed to _mean_ anything. But then, it wasn’t just sex, was it? They spent just as much time together outside as they did in the confines of their yacht suites, and Crowley made him _laugh_. Oh, he made Miles laugh harder than he could ever remember laughing – and he’d always had a harsh policy against laughing to excess, for it was a sure-fire way to get wrinkles.

Strange as it was, with Crowley he didn’t seem to care all that much about wrinkles – or appearances in general, for that matter. He was perfectly content to be silly in front of all their mutual friends, both while drunk and while perfectly sober.

Roughly three weeks into their Greek vacation, someone in their gaggle of mates decided it would be jolly good fun to have a bonfire on one of the local beaches, so Archie had the captain dock them in the nearest port. It was beautiful, really, Greece at night; from the beach they had commandeered for their party, Miles was able to see the twinkling lights of a nearby village and the stars shining overhead. Sucking on the cherry from the old-fashioned brandy sweet he was drinking, he’d found himself thinking that he wouldn’t mind staying in Greece forever if it meant he could always feel so… perfectly _content._

A mellow playlist accompanied the natural soundtrack of the waves lapping at the sand; Miles was quite certain it was called “Summer Nights”. Biting the cherry from its stem, he was in the middle of chewing it when Crowley’s arms slid around him from behind, his chin coming to rest on Miles’ shoulder.

“Enjoying the evening?” his summer lover asked, dropping a kiss to the side of Miles' neck; he was currently dressed in a white v-neck t-shirt, exposing plenty of skin for Crowley’s lips. ( _This may or may not have been intentional._ ) Crowley himself had opted for a short-sleeved white button-down, which hung open like most of his shirts had over the course of the weeks spent on Archie’s yacht. At first, it had simply been to allow himself to get some sun, but it quickly turned into a way of snagging Miles’ attention.

Turning his head, his hands coming to rest over Crowley’s where they were folded over his stomach, Miles smiles and cooed, “Very much. I have a drink in hand, my toes in the sand, and I believe I’m about to be kissed by a _very_ handsome young man. Am I correct in assuming so?”

Crowley answered his question with a fond kiss.

“That’s what I thought,” Miles playfully remarked afterward, nudging Crowley’s nose with his own. He really _did_ look handsome in the bonfire’s glow; it cast shadows over the angles of his face while bringing out the ginger highlights in his hair. Miles was rather aware that he shouldn’t be quite so fixated on how handsome a casual fling was, but he was too happy to care.

Lips close to his ear, Crowley whispered, “Dance with me.”

Giggling with surprise at the request while the bohemian notes of Walk The Moon’s “Aquaman” floated in their direction, Miles turned his head to ask, “You’re serious?”

“As a heart attack,” Crowley confirmed, turning one of his hands over under Miles’ to tangle their fingers together, using the grip to twirl Miles beneath his arm so they were facing each other, his other hand coming to rest at Miles’ back instead of his stomach, pulling him close.

A giddy noise of delight escaped Miles upon being unexpectedly twirled and he flashed Crowley a smile, letting his free hand come up to rest at the nape of his neck.

“You’re truly full of surprises, Anthony J,” he mused, his gaze unabashedly soft, and Crowley offered up a fond smile of his own as they swayed in the moonlight to the song’s gentle melody, the lyrics washing over them both…

_So, here we go; headfirst, no regrets, and no rules – we can stay as long as we want. Slow dancing in the darkness and all I know is I wanna be here with you from now on…_

“I aim to please,” Crowley mused, his gaze thoughtful before he bent down, capturing Miles’ lips in another tender kiss, unwilling to let himself _think_ too much.

Whenever he allowed himself to think, good things tended to go sideways.

* * *

It was roughly a week later that Crowley realized, in all the time they had spent together on Archie’s yacht, he had never once actually seen Miles _swim._ Granted, they had spent a great deal of the past month in bed, tangled up in each other, but still. It was a bit odd.

He finally questioned him about it while they had breakfast in the morning sunshine, their feet dangling in the sea from the edge of one of the lower decks while they sipped mimosas and ate orange slices and bacon.

“Do you know how to swim?”

Arching an eyebrow at the seemingly bizarre question, Miles sipped his drink before confirming, “Of course I know how to swim. What a silly question. I’m on a _boat_ , aren’t I?”

“Technically,” Crowley agreed, chewing his bacon before he clarified, “Just never seen you swim, is all. Thought it was odd, given how long we’ve been in Greece.”

“Oh, darling, you don’t want to see me swim,” Miles sighed, pulling his sunglasses from the top of his head to rest them on his nose before sipping more of his mimosa. “My hair is an absolute _fright_ when it gets wet – and my mascara would run.”

“Well, we can’t have that,” Crowley sighed, setting his plate off to the side and scooting ever-so-slightly closer to Miles.

“No, we can’t,” Miles agreed, finishing his drink.

Crowley at least had the courtesy to let him set his glass down before pushing him into the water.

When Miles surfaced a few seconds later, spluttering and shrieking, Crowley couldn’t help but laugh.

“Oh, you _beast!_ ” Miles howled, splashing angrily. “You absolute _demon!_ ” After lifting a hand to his ear to attempt getting the water out of it, he exclaimed with horror, “You’ve made me lose my earring in the ocean!”

Miles, who had been rather obsessed with Lord Byron in college, took to wearing a single diamond earring everywhere he went as a conversation starter. Of course, he’d been too squeamish at the time to actually get his ear _pierced_ , so it was simply a $75,000 clip-on.

A $75,000 clip-on that was presently sinking to the bottom of the Mediterranean, never to be seen again. Crowley, taking pity on Miles, slid down into the water himself and swam over to him, cupping his cheeks and swiping at his running mascara.

“I’ll buy you another,” he promised, leaning in to press a kiss to Miles’ forehead. Miles gave a half-hearted little splash in response.

“I can’t believe you did that.”

“Thought it would be funny,” Crowley hummed, grinning and sliding his lips down to kiss Miles’ nose before teasingly adding, “I wasn’t wrong.”

Exhaling another angry noise, Miles made a point of wriggling out of Crowley’s grip to splash him properly.

“It is _not funny;_ I’m going to look an absolute wreck for the rest of the day now! And _I lost my diamond earring in the ocean!_ ”

“It _was_ funny, regardless of that unfortunate, unforeseen consequence,” Crowley quipped, snickering as Miles splashed him once more, swimming closer to him again to snake his arms around his waist, insisting, “and you could never look like a wreck. You’re perfect.”

Despite his lingering anger, Miles blushed.

“I’m not _perfect…_ ” he mumbled.

He blushed furiously when Crowley insisted, “You _are._ Positively perfect. Radiant. Gorgeous. Your beauty is unparalleled.”

Still slightly cranky, Miles muttered, “…go on.”

Smirking, Crowley continued and pulled Miles closer as he spoke, “You’re stunning. Exquisite. Absolutely _astonishing_ …”

Not waiting for further compliments, Miles surged forward and pressed his lips to Crowley’s –

\- and if he “accidentally” knocked his designer sunglasses into the ocean while running his fingers through his hair… well. It was only fair.

* * *

It seemed fitting that their final night in Greece before the captain was to set sail for home was a stormy one. The sun had shone relentlessly over all of their parties and romps in the ocean, with only brief intervals of showers ever cutting into their fun. Tonight, however, the wind howled and the choppy ocean made the yacht sway while rain pounded against all of the windows. It was well past midnight and everyone was content, after a month and a half of partying, to curl up in bed a bit early for once.

It didn’t make much of a difference for Miles and Crowley either way; they had spent the entire day in bed together even before the sky clouded in and the heavens opened up above them. Plagued by the knowledge that this would be the last proper day of their vacation, they had both been possessed by an intense sense of urgency; a desperate need to have each other, and be with each other, until the last possible moment. If they stayed in bed, perhaps the holiday never had to end.

Because they both knew that once they docked back in England in a few days’ time, things would be different. You don’t bring a summer fling home with you; you let it fade into the past, where you can treasure the warm memories on cold and dreary winter days. Being back in London would make everything _serious_ , even if neither of them were very serious people. Admitting that they didn’t want this – _whatever it was_ – to end would be admitting to feeling something for each other, and that felt far too dangerous to risk.

So instead of talking about what lay ahead, they spent the day kissing, and laughing, and fucking, and doing things that very much bordered on making love, even if neither of them would concede to calling it that.

Now, in the dark suite with the ocean rocking precariously beneath them, Miles found that he was unable to sleep. They’d tired each other out hours ago, both of them too sore to even consider doing anything further, and Crowley had easily lapsed into sleep at around 10:00 p.m. Too easily, in Miles’ humble opinion. _Was his heart not breaking at the thought of all of this coming to a grinding halt the second they stepped back onto British soil?_

Begrudgingly, Miles realized that he was crying. Lying on his back, staring sleeplessly up at the ceiling and fiddling with the sea-glass necklace that he hadn't taken off in over a month, he could feel the tears rolling down his cheeks, down beneath his ears and onto his pillow. This hadn’t been a part of his plan; when he’d suggested that they have a “little love affair”, he hadn’t expected to grow so… _attached_ to Crowley. That had never happened before. Love affairs were quick and passionate and then they were over, leaving Miles to move onto the next one. The thing was, he didn’t _want_ to move on from Crowley. Crowley made him happier than he had been in a very long time - happier than he'd thought he would feel ever again, after Tiger.

Aware that his happiness had an expiration date, Miles rolled over and cried harder into his pillow while Crowley slept soundly beside him.

* * *

Agatha knew that something was wrong. They’d all been home for over a week now and Miles hadn’t tagged along with them to a _single_ party; in fact, she wasn’t even sure he had left his house since they arrived back in London. It was perfectly normal to have a case of the post-vacation blues, but this seemed a tad excessive - even for Miles.

When she arrived at the Maitland’s mansion the place was practically deserted aside from the staff, who were busy as usual with refurbishing flower arrangements and waxing the tile floors. Margot was undoubtedly at the country club, planning some event or another, and her husband would be golfing, possibly with a duke (or two). Likewise, Miles’ younger sisters were all a lively and social bunch, constantly flitting off to this recital or that tennis match and so on, so forth. Thus: an empty mansion.

Crossing the foyer, Agatha tapped a maid on the shoulder, prompting the woman to tug an earbud from her ear and pause in her busy task of waxing the floor.

“Can I help you, Miss Runcible?”

“Yes; can you tell me if Miles is in? I haven’t heard from him in a few days and I’ve gotten a bit worried.”

Glancing toward the grand staircase, the maid sighed and muttered, “I don’t believe he’s _left_ , Miss, in over a week. Nobody’s been able to get a lick of cleaning done in that wing. Lord only knows what sort of state his room’s in.”

Forcing a smile, Agatha let the maid get back to her work before walking, rather briskly, up the stairs.

She’d been right; Miles’ room _was_ in a right state. When Agatha opened the door, she found the curtains all drawn tightly shut with the lights off; the only light in the room at all was coming from the massive television mounted to the wall on the opposite side of the room from the bed, which was littered with tissues and empty candy boxes. Likewise, there were dishes stacking up on both bedside tables; comfort food, from the look of them. The room smelled like misery.

Miles was presently curled up in the middle of his California king bed, dressed in blue silk pajamas and a fuzzy white dressing gown, and he looked shockingly unkempt. His hair was limp and his eyes, usually bright, were dull and bloodshot, with dark circles beneath. He was currently smoking a cigarette and destroying a box of chocolate truffles at the same time while he sniveled over an episode of _Downton Abbey_.

Tossing a piece of the expensive chocolate at the television, with impressive aim, he shouted, “Rot in Hell, Mary, you absolute _bitch!_ Can’t you see Matthew _loves you?!_ ”

In the corner, an ABBA record was skipping on an antique turntable; it was playing a portion of “Our Last Summer” on repeat. A spoon was presently lodged beneath the needle, apparently having been lobbed at it out of frustration – likely as a response to the song in question.

_I can still recall our last summer; I still see it all… I can still recall our last summer; I still see it all… I can still recall our last summer; I still see it all… I can still recall our last summer; I still see it all… I can still recall our last summer; I still see it all…_

Briefly grimacing in the doorway, Agatha plastered on her best smile before strolling in.

“I thought Mary was your favourite character, darling?”

Miles jumped when he realized that he was no longer alone, frantically extinguishing his cigarette in the nearest ashtray before shoving the box of truffles aside – but, instead of hiding them, he only succeeded in scattering them all over the floor. Sagging, Miles asked, “If you’re here, would you be a dear and turn off that blasted record? I tossed a teaspoon at it this morning and it just… _won’t stop._ ”

_I can still recall our last summer; I still see it all…_

Tears burning in his bloodshot eyes, Miles muttered, “It’s giving me the worst headache.”

_I can still recall…_

Opting to just unplug the turntable completely, the room was plunged into pleasant silence in comparison, the only sound coming from the _Downton_ episode still playing on the telly.

_“Aren’t we all stuck with the choices we make?”_

Wiping his eyes with the fuzzy material of his dressing gown, Miles sighed quietly.

“Thank you.”

“Darling, whatever is the matter?” Agatha urged, ignoring the mess for a moment in favor of walking over and sitting on the edge of Miles’ bed, taking his hand in hers. “You haven’t returned any of my texts or phone calls since we all got in last week; you’ve missed _eight_ parties, darling – _eight!_ ”

Picking at a stray thread on his duvet, Miles glanced over at where his phone lay at the bottom of the bed, blinking with several messages – none of which were from the person from whom he most wanted to hear. He and Crowley parted ways when they docked, and it had been radio silence ever since.

“I am sorry, Aggie, dearest,” Miles murmured, his voice rather dull. “My phone’s been acting up. I think it may be withholding messages from me…”

That was when realization dawned in Agatha’s eyes.

“It’s Crowley, isn’t it?” she asked, frowning. “You haven’t heard from him?”

Tears welling up in his eyes again of their own accord, Miles whispered, “Not a word.”

“That  _b_ _astard,_ ” Agatha muttered, frowning deeply, and Miles exhaled a miserable little noise.

“It’s not entirely his fault,” he mumbled on a sniffle, tears trickling down his cheeks. “I… I made it sound like all I wanted was a fling, and then… then when I realized it was becoming _more_ , I didn’t _say anything_ , and now he’s just… _gone._ ”

“He’s not _gone_ ,” Agatha huffed, curling her fingers angrily into the duvet. “He lives in a flat in Mayfair; Archie saw him last week. He invited him to Sissy Timpleton’s birthday party but he said no; apparently he had too much work to catch up on.”

Miles clearly didn’t know whether this information was meant to make him feel better or worse. Sighing, Agatha stated, “The point is, darling, he could have called you; he _should_ have called you. He’s only a stone’s throw away, and you two seemed so _happy_. What is _the matter_ with him?”

“Maybe a better offer came along,” Miles muttered miserably, sinking back into his pillows while his gaze drifted back to his television screen. “Maybe I’m just the Matthew to his Lady Mary.”

Her expression softening, Agatha moved to curl up next to Miles on the bed, resting her head reassuringly on his shoulder.

“Matthew and Mary do end up together, though…”

“Yes,” Miles muttered, his expression drawn out and exhausted, “and then he dies.”

* * *

Crowley was dithering.

He’d been dithering, in fact, for roughly a week and a half. _To call or not to call; that was the question._

Before they had kissed that first time, Miles had asked him if he wanted to have “a little love affair”; sure, the word ‘love’ was tossed in there, but ‘affair’ implied a casual dalliance, did it not? They’d had a wonderful time together in Greece, but there was no telling whether Miles would want to carry on with him back in England.

He’d gotten a text from Miles after twenty-four hours spent back in the country:

**August 24: 9:08 p.m. “ _Miss you_.”**

Crowley had sat on his couch, wine glass in hand, and stared at the text message for a solid two hours. What did it mean? What, exactly, did Miles miss? Him? Sex with him? They’d never talked about the possibility that something more had blossomed between them during their time spent on the Mediterranean; perhaps, for Miles, it really had just been a no-strings-attached, passion-fueled fling.

Crowley decided to sleep on the text and answer in the morning.

But he didn’t answer in the morning, or in the days that followed. Instead, he paced and paced and paced in his flat, avoided parties like the plague in case Miles might be there, took out his frustration on his house plants, and stared again and again at that single text message.

**“ _Miss you._ ”**

What the bloody hell did it _mean?_ He couldn’t answer if he didn’t know what it meant, and he couldn’t outright ask Miles what it meant, either.

So, a week and a half after receiving the text, Crowley was still dithering.

Finally, after downing the rest of a particularly aromatic red, he typed out the truth:

**September 4: 1:50 a.m. “ _I miss you, too._ ”**

* * *

They met, for the first time in London, on September 6th at the Ritz. It was raining. Miles had needed a day to recuperate after receiving Crowley’s text before he dared venture out into the real world again – and they were supposed to meet at 11:30, but Miles made him wait until noon. _It was only fair._

When he walked into the dining room, dressed in a white jacket and a blue button-down, his hair perfectly coifed and his makeup flawless, he’d hoped to have the upper hand. After all, choosing to be fashionably late was an assertion of power.

But of course, the second he saw Crowley stand over at the table he’d been waiting at, Miles felt his heart leap into his throat and knew that he was a goner.

Crowley was still Crowley, if a bit less unkempt than he had been on vacation; his black shirt, for instance, was actually buttoned beneath his leather jacket and perfectly shined snakeskin shoes replaced the bare feet that Miles had grown accustomed to on beaches and by the pool.

He was still painfully beautiful.

Crossing the room, Miles found himself standing a bit awkwardly before Crowley, staring uncertainly at him. When he opened his mouth to speak, Crowley did so at the same moment and their words tumbled over each other.

“ _I thought you were never going to_ -” “ _I need you to know how_ -”

Both lapsed, once again, into silence.

“You first,” Miles finally whispered, pressing his lips together.

Crowley took a breath, pursing his lips momentarily before he properly met Miles’ gaze, plucking up the courage that he’d lacked for the past week and a half.

“I need you to know how sorry I am,” he finished, hands awkwardly stuffed into the pockets of his tight, faded jeans. “I was a coward. I saw your text the moment you sent it and I started hyper-analyzing what it might mean. I scared myself out of responding… for _far_ too long.” His expression turning slightly pained, Crowley added, “Actually, I was a coward long before that. I knew that this wasn’t just a fling _ages_ ago, but I never said anything. If I’d just _said_ something, I wouldn't have felt so confused by such a simple text, and things could’ve been so much _better._ ”

Miles felt the tension bleed out of his shoulders only for it to be replaced by a clenching sense of guilt deep in his heart.

“Oh, darling…” he sighed, taking Crowley’s hand and sitting down at the table, guiding him to do the same. Tangling their fingers together atop the table, Miles bit his lip before admitting, “If you’ve been a coward, then so have I. I… laid awake that last night before we set sail for home, and I _cried_ thinking about having to walk away from what we had. I should’ve just woken you up and told you that I didn’t want to let things end, but I didn’t. I didn’t say anything, either. We’re both guilty of silence.”

Something flickered in Crowley’s brown eyes – something like guilt, shame, or regret. Perhaps it was all three. Cursing quietly under his breath, he wrapped Miles’ hand in both of his and gave it a squeeze, quietly asking, “You were crying? You were crying, and I was _asleep_ right beside you…”

“I should’ve woken you,” Miles repeated but Crowley just shook his head, pressing a kiss to Miles’ knuckles before he heaved a sigh. While he may have slept soundly _that_ night, it was clear that he hadn’t done so since then.

“I should have known that something was wrong. You seemed… _off_  for the rest of the trip home, but I didn’t say a word about it. I just convinced myself you were disappointed to be going home. I didn’t want to kid myself that it had anything to do with me.”

“Darling, it had _everything_ to do with you,” Miles whispered, his hazel eyes widening slightly. Moving to cover Crowley’s hands with his own, he met his gaze while he said, with deep sincerity, “Greece never mattered. It started out as just another place to go party in, to drink in, to get high in… It was beautiful, of course, but it didn’t _mean_ anything.” His cheeks pink, Miles added, “You _made it_ mean something. I don’t pretend to be virtuous, and I _certainly_ don’t pretend to be abstinent, but with you… things were _different._ You weren’t just a distraction, like all the rest.” A tiny smile pulling at his lips, Miles kissed Crowley’s hands as he stated, “You made me happy.”

Sighing, Crowley returned his smile with a faint one of his own, sardonically muttering, “I rather mucked it up, though, didn’t I?”

“It takes two to tango, my dear Crowley,” Miles quipped affectionately as he smirked, looking up when their waiter finally ventured over to their table.

“How are we feeling today, gentlemen?”

Turning to look at Crowley, Miles grinned as he said, "Better than I have in a while. Shall we have the high tea spread? With French champagne, I think.”

Grinning curiously at the suggestion, Crowley asked, “Are we celebrating?”

Giving his hands another squeeze, a warmth crept into Miles’ expression as he mused, “I believe we are.”

When the waiter brought them their champagne, promising that the tea service would be along shortly, Miles held up his first glass in a toast, declaring, “To new beginnings.”

Holding up his own glass, Crowley added, “To never-ending happiness.”

And so they clinked their glasses to the future and sealed their toasts with a kiss. Outside, the sun began to break through the rain clouds.

The future looked bright.

**Author's Note:**

> Have a prompt? Send it my way @ apictureofspace on Tumblr!


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